


Chicken Soup for the Feline Soul

by coatofflowers



Series: Like a Two-Tailed Cat [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Cats, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Lavellan deals with having a cat that could give a damn about him, Lavellan deals with losing an arm, M/M, Post-Trespasser, this fic has no point
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-19
Updated: 2016-05-19
Packaged: 2018-06-09 10:19:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6901906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coatofflowers/pseuds/coatofflowers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian spends an afternoon away from home to rub elbows with some Magisters on behalf of the Lucerni. Lavellan, left to his own devices, tries to make himself dinner for the first time since losing an arm. Also, his new cat is there, and gently bullies him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chicken Soup for the Feline Soul

“Fuck.”

Chicken broth spilled liberally over the counter top, carrying chunks of celery and potato along with it. Laelion cursed again, this time in elvhen, and put the soup pot back down as quickly as he could without just dropping it. The resulting _clank_  of porcelain on granite was louder than anticipated and made him jump, and he cursed for the third time, snatching one of the clean rags folded by the window. He’d gotten more damn soup on the floor than in his bowl. It seemed he’d severely underestimated how difficult it would be to tip a pot full of soup with only one hand—as he was severely underestimating the difficulty of about everything fucking else, lately.

Groaning in frustration, Laelion dropped to his knees to wipe up the mess. If this were his Kirkwall estate he might not have bothered, but he had considerably more respect for Dorian’s home than his own. Besides, he didn’t want his lover to know that such a simple act as cooking had caused him so much damn trouble.

It boggled Laelion’s _mind_ how much the loss of his left arm actually impeded him on a regular basis. Losing his archery had been devastating, yes, but he had quickly realized that it was far, far worse to lose the ability to take care of himself. Even the most ordinary of things like cooking and bathing were more difficult now, and he still wasn’t fully accustomed to performing these activities with only one hand. Dorian had done his best to help, bless his heart, but there was only so much he could do to alleviate Laelion’s frustration. Eventually the man had simply settled for urging Laelion to be patient. He would readjust to this life soon enough, with continued practice.

Now, ordinarily, Laelion would consider himself a patient man. But it wasn’t long before he realized he’d always taken his ability to perform menial day-to-day tasks for granted. With every bit of progress he seemingly made—every awkward maneuver he had made graceful, every act of balancing he had mastered—some other, new difficulty would always present itself. Some particular configuration of objects he couldn’t carry all at once. Some particular door or window he couldn’t open on his own. It was exhausting, and endlessly frustrating. Who knew that so much of the world required two functioning hands to access?

Still, Laelion was not above accepting small victories. Such as making himself a pot of chicken soup and only burning himself twice, even if he had spilled it all over because the pot was a bit too heavy for his single hand. It had taken much longer than it would have a year ago, sure, and he’d wanted to cry out of frustration at no fewer than four distinct points during the preparation, but Laelion was attempting to get into the habit of not comparing his new self to his old self as much as possible. He could still manage it, which was the important thing. He could still make a Creators-damned bowl of soup for himself.

Once the mess had been adequately sopped up, Laelion discarded the towel and went back for the bedroom, bowl in hand. He paused in the entrance for a moment before decided to settle into the armchair at the desk. Not wanting to disturb Dorian’s rather impressive array of random documents, he pulled his knees up and balanced the bowl atop them instead. Humming tunelessly to himself, he took a careful bite. Then another. The meal had turned out pretty well, actually, although he was certain he’d gotten some of the measurements wrong, and there hadn’t been any of that exotic carrot-type vegetable thing in the house that Laelion liked. Dorian would have surely turned his nose up at the meal for its lack of flavor. But that was why Laelion had mentally transposed all of Dorian’s favorite recipes into blander, simpler versions to make for himself when the other man wasn’t around, and would be sure to cook for Dorian using all the foul-smelling spices and ingredients that the man apparently enjoyed so much. In fact, he would probably add some of those very spices to the pot for Dorian before he came home. He wasn’t planning on eating it all by himself, anyway …

“Mrrrow.”

Blinking, Laelion looked up at the high-pitched sound to see a tan cat sitting under the desk, her long black tail curled around her forepaws, staring at him. Laelion smiled immediately. It wasn’t often that his and Dorian’s new cat, Alessia, seemed to want anyone’s attention. In fact he wasn’t sure that she had ever wanted anyone’s attention. He’d only gotten to pet her once or twice so far and was constantly looking to remedy that problem.

“Can I help you with something?” he asked, taking another spoonful.

“Meow,” said Alessia.

Grinning, Laelion leaned forward in his seat, lifting the bowl from his lap, though he paused when he looked back at the cat. Alessia’s gaze was trained on his bowl, not him. Laelion scowled in realization. That little shit. She was more interested in his soup than his attention, although Laelion was fairly certain he had filled up her food bowl no more than an hour ago. Still scowling, he settled back in his seat.

“You don’t want my affection,” he accused. “You only want my soup.”

Alessia, apparently unperturbed by this accusation, merely blinked at him.

“Well, you can’t have any. It’s people food,” Laelion said. “You’re a cat. Sorry.”

But the cat didn’t appear interested in such trivial labels as _cat food_ and _people food_. All just arbitrary social conventions, that whole business. She could _smell_ the cooked chicken and would not be kept from it, thank you very much. Purring, she reached out with a tiny paw to pat at Laelion’s bare toes. He made a face at this shameless attempt at manipulation.

“I’ve just spent the past hour and a half making this soup, and I nearly killed myself in the process,” he said to the cat. “So you can fuck off with that.”

Alessia only stared at him. Her eyes, massive and yellow and unblinking, reminded Laelion strangely of his own—something to do with their brightness and particular intensity. Maybe that’s why Dorian had elected to get this particular cat, out of the many he could’ve chosen instead?

That was adorable, if true. _Although if Dorian had_ really _wanted a cat that reminded him of me he should’ve cut one of its paws off,_ Laelion thought, only a bit grimly. Not that he would ever advocate doing such a thing to Alessia. She was adorable. And apparently quite patient. He stared back at her furry little face for several silent moments before sighing in resignation, running his hand through his hair and pulling at a dark curl. “Very well. You know what?” He found an open space on the desk amidst the disheveled papers and frayed quills to set the bowl down and stood up, using the chair to support himself. “You can have some. I worked too hard not to share.”

The cat followed him into the kitchen, watching from the doorway in silence as Laelion fished out a porcelain bowl from the cupboard. The delicate floral design around the bowl's rim gave him momentary pause, and he wondered how Dorian would feel about what he was about to use this handcrafted and clearly expensive piece of dishware for. The man had made a point of buying special, less opulent dishes for Alessia’s water and meals, but Laelion was pretty certain one of those tiny dishes wouldn’t hold any decent amount of soup at all. Besides, Dorian had said himself that the cat was more like a quiet, furry roommate than a pet; surely that meant she was entitled to the same dishware?

Clenching his jaw, Laelion picked up the pot. His hand trembled with the effort.  _Try not to make a mess this time._

He filled the bowl about halfway, making sure to get some sizable chunks of chicken in there for her, and then set the pot down quickly before he could ruin everything again. He crouched to set the bowl down by his feet, and the cat crept forward, stretching her elegant neck to sniff the bowl’s contents before dipping her head to eat. Laelion lingered there for a moment, hesitant, before reaching out to scratch the cat’s ear. _Finally you let me touch you, you piece of garbage._ Alessia, for her part, continued to ignore him, but at least didn’t move away from his fingers.

“Not too bad, right?” Straightening, he leaned back against the counter. “It’s a Tevinter recipe, sure, but I omitted some of the weirder stuff. Usually when I make it for Dorian I season it to hell. He doesn’t like anything that doesn’t clear his sinuses with every bite.” He was exaggerating, of course. In truth, Laelion just had a deep-seated hatred of everything that didn’t taste like lightly salted air. Dorian’s palette was probably no more extravagant than anyone else’s; Laelion just couldn’t understand how he, or anyone, could enjoy such strong flavors. At the very least Alessia seemed to like Laelion’s modified version of the soup.

“Don’t tell Dorian I let you eat this, OK?” he said, watching. “He’ll flip shit.” The cat’s tail twitched in response. Sighing, Laelion shook his head and made his way back to the bedroom, making a mental note to pick that dish up off the floor before Dorian returned.

* * *

By the time the evening of Magisterium rot was nearly through, the only thing keeping Dorian from setting everything and everyone on fire was the thought of coming home and getting to see Laelion again, getting to lounge around in outrageously comfortable silk bedsheets while he made of all the ridiculous bullshit he’d heard today. And then, perhaps, fucking. Later.

Not that he supposed he had a real right to complain. He had, after all, voluntarily decided to engage in this sort of exhausting political activism. It would have been far simpler to passively serve his term and absorb all the fame and fortune and prestige that came with his position, but his moral compass wouldn’t allow him to do that. And neither would Laelion, his other moral compass. When the final meeting had at last adjourned Dorian couldn’t get out of there fast enough. He had already thought through what he would tell his _amatus_ about today upon his return. Sometimes he worried that he spent too much time complaining about the Magisterium to Laelion, but whenever he voiced this concern he was always met with the assurance that Laelion loved hearing about his day and would always be willing to listen, no matter what. A few years ago he would’ve scoffed at such a proclamation, but Laelion had proved to him that there really were people so strangely willing to just listen to others in the world. Dorian couldn’t say he didn’t appreciate that about the man; it was one trait in a rather long list, actually.

Far too many minutes later Dorian was at last back at his estate. He brushed off the first servant that approached him with a greeting and made straight for the kitchen, wanting to pick out a bottle of wine for tonight before seeking out Laelion. As he moved to examine the bottles he’d left out for this exact purpose, however, something on the ground near his feet caught his eye.

He stopped, blinked. It looked like a bowl of … soup? With chunks of chicken and root vegetables. Apparently Laelion’s dinner, although why the elf hadn’t cleaned out the bowl and put it away like he usually did remained a small mystery. Brow furrowed, Dorian bent to pick it up, and set it down on the counter to clean later. Forgetting the wine for now, he made his way to the master’s quarters, finding the door slightly ajar, and pushed it open quietly.

Laelion was in bed, sprawled on his stomach atop the sheets with bare feet in the air, his partial left arm propping himself up while he scrawled with a quill in some book—likely rendering its passages utterly illegible with his drawings, as Dorian knew from experience. The elf’s mass of loose black curls obscured most of his face, but Dorian could see his lips pinched to one side in concentration, clearly too absorbed in his sketches to notice that his lover had returned. Smiling privately, the man paused in the doorway for a moment, watching fondly, before stepping in to make himself known. “Working hard at destroying my library, are we, _amatus_?”

Laelion looked up sharply from his book, eyes lighting up when he saw who stood before him. A grin spread across his face, the signature lopsided smile that crinkled the elf’s nose just slightly, which Dorian had always found so positively endearing. “Hey. How was it today?”

“Terribly ordinary, I’m afraid.” Dorian unbuckled his shawl and removed it from his shoulders, taking care to fold it into a square. “Half-assed attempts at small talk giving way to entirely incorrect political predictions and thinly veiled threats. Condescension masquerading as chivalry. Magister Treventus complaining about his late wife.” He glanced up at the elf, meeting his bright green gaze with a smirk. “You know how it is.”

Laelion hummed, watching his lover stoop to remove his boots next. “And what about Magister Pavus? Terribly ordinary as well?”

Dorian laughed. “Oh, he was a marvel of restraint and social etiquette, as usual. Prim, respectable, and not at all preoccupied with visions of tearing anyone’s spinal cord out.”

Which, actually, was one of about two hundred reasons why Dorian went alone to these types of things, much as Laelion staying home in Dorian’s estate for several hours on end wasn’t an ideal situation for anyone. The elf could simply not bear the types of vague, platitude-laden political negotiations Dorian was forced to participate in. Now, in his stead Laelion wouldn’t be tempted to rip anyone’s spine out, necessarily. He’d be more likely to throw himself out a window. Which, in Tevinter’s social scape, would be about as outrageous as a passionate murder—maybe even less so. It wouldn’t be the first time that Laelion had made a less-than-peachy impression on some important politician—it probably would be closer to the five-hundredth were it not for a particularly dedicated team of advisers-turned-damage-control back in the Inquisition. _Thank the Maker for Josephine._

Presently Dorian considered bringing up that time that Laelion ripped his expensive tunic off at the Winter Palace in full view of about sixty Orlesians, just for the pleasure of reliving the memory. Then he remembered the soup bowl, and smirked. “Laelion.”

“Yes.” The elf yawned, having abandoned his drawing, now content to watch Dorian unbuckle his boots with half-lidded eyes.

“Are you aware that you left a half-eaten bowl of soup on the floor in the kitchen?”

His question was met with silence. Dorian looked up to meet Laelion’s eyes. The elf blinked at him no less than three times, then scowled.

“ _Shit_. I forgot to clean that up.”

Chuckling, Dorian crossed the room to sit on the edge of the bed, extending an arm towards his lover. Laelion pushed himself up and into the other man’s embrace without need of further prompting, fitting himself into his side. Dorian planted a kiss into the elf’s hair as soon as he was in reach, already feeling the knots of stress in his shoulders loosening with the mere act of being home, and with his _amatus_. “You at least could have had the foresight to put your bowl on the counter, dear, rather than on the floor.”

Laelion sighed, running a hand across the small of the other man’s back. “It wasn’t mine. It was Alessia’s.”

Now it was Dorian’s turn to blink at him.

“It—what? You made soup for the cat?”

The elf wrinkled his nose. “Well, no, I made it for myself. I didn’t intend to share. But she wanted some, so I made her a bowl, too.” He glanced up at the other man, a slow grin spreading across his face at Dorian’s bewildered expression. For a beat Dorian merely attempted to come up with an appropriate response to such a statement. He shouldn't have been surprised. This is the man that used to chase down nugs so that he could pet them, after all.

“You are an odd creature,” he said at last, earning a laugh from the other. “I ... hate to say this, but we _do_ have food specifically for her. Which I purchased, for her to eat, specifically. You are aware of this?”

The elf stuck out his tongue. “Well, she didn’t want _that_ food. You wouldn’t either.”

“True, but my palette is ever so much more refined than a cat’s.” Dorian smirked at him, before a different thought crossed his mind, and his expression shifted into something a bit more serious. “I had leftovers for you, you know. In the breadbox, wrapped in parchment. I had hoped not to make you struggle to prepare your own meal.”

At this Laelion shifted, perhaps a bit uncomfortably. Dorian had the feeling that he in fact had seen the particular partially-eaten loaf of nut bread to which his lover was referring, and had consciously decided not to have it for dinner. “I know. And I appreciate it, but I just … wanted to make sure I could still make something myself. That’s all.”

Ah. It was as Dorian had figured. He cocked his head in an attempt to see the man’s face. “You can, Laelion. And if ever you can’t, it’s no matter. There is still so much you _can_ do.”

The elf sighed, gaze fixed on something on the other side of the room. “Sometimes it doesn’t feel so.”

“Ah, because even know you try to go about your business in the two-handed fashion. You of all people should know there’s many more correct ways than one to do any given thing.” Though he intentionally kept his voice light, Dorian made no attempt to mask the gravity of his concern. That Laelion’s changing body was causing him immense anxiety and frustration was no secret. Although he didn’t quite want to get into a serious discussion about it now, Dorian figured if he kept quietly encouraging the elf—a word here, a smile there—it could only help. “Eventually you will settle into a new way of function. It may not seem feasible at this point, but it’s only been a few months, _amatus_. Give it time. It will become natural enough soon.”

Of course, Dorian had no real foundation for what he told his lover, having never known anybody in Laelion’s unique predicament before. But the encouragement seemed to work nonetheless; although he didn’t respond verbally, Laelion pivoted to the side, sliding one leg over Dorian’s lap and pressing his face into his neck. The man squeezed the elf’s waist in response. His free hand moved almost of its own volition, coming to slowly run fingers up and down Laelion’s left arm. He dared himself to travel all the way to where the limb abruptly ended at the elbow. Though he was disinclined to say this aloud, it was a bit hard for him to adjust to Laelion’s new body as well. For the first few weeks it had been … difficult to look at him. The elf had been nearly catatonic while he was confined to bed, not speaking to anyone that came to see him and seemingly unable to engage with anything going on in his presence. Dorian had seen Laelion get like that prior to the loss of his arm, but had never seen it go on for so long. Even now, after Laelion’s attitude had more or less returned to its normal state, he could tell that the elf’s once-healthy self-image had taken a hit.

As his best friend Dorian wanted nothing more than to fix this for Laelion—and he wanted it even more so as his lover. He wanted to tell Laelion that his body wasn’t broken. It was still useful, still beautiful. Still good. Just different now.

It occurred to Dorian that he could be sharing these thoughts out loud, rather than keeping them to himself where they could go Laelion no good. But as silence stretched between the pair of him, a welcome peace in the warmth of Laelion’s breath against his neck, he decided not to drag out this issue any more for tonight. Instead, he said, quietly, “Where is she anyway?”

“The cat?” Laelion hummed, tilting his head in a half-assed attempt at looking around the room, apparently not actually wanting to move from Dorian’s shoulder. “Don’t know. I sort of lost track of the past few hours. She’ll make herself known when she wants something, I’m sure.”

That brought a low chuckle from Dorian, more out of relief at the lightening of Laelion’s mood than actual amusement. “Something from you, I’d imagine. You poor, blighted fool. You’ve shown your cards. Now she knows precisely how much power her feline charms have to compel you.”

“Mm.” Laelion kissed the man’s jaw. “She’s not the only one with compelling feline charm.”

“ _Feline_ , am I?” Smiling wide, unrestrained, Dorian closed his eyes, letting his head rest against his lover’s. “I suppose I can see it.”

He could almost feel the elf’s smile against the side of his neck as he shifted to be even closer to the man, his one-armed embrace tightening. “I’m so glad you’re home,” Laelion sighed into Dorian’s skin. “We should go for a walk later if it gets cooler outside. I love you. Tell me more about your day.”

Laughing, Dorian pulled him in for a sound kiss on the mouth, wondering at how the elf’s unbridled verbal affection could still make his stomach flip even after all this time. When the kiss came to a natural break, he grinned, touching his nose to his lover’s.

“At least nobody can ever accuse you of being graceless with your feelings.”

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! :D
> 
> this is my first fic, so it's a bit ...... odd, and silly. any comments, feedback, criticism, etc. is very much appreciated! i would love to hear from ya'll!


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